Haircut

For me, getting a haircut is like going to the dentist. It’s just one of those things you have to do. As I walked into the shop I was struck with everything I’ve ever been afraid of. Yellow seventies, flowered wallpaper and old brown, leather chairs. The entrance was cluttered with dulled airbrushed signs and pictures of bad eighties haircuts.

It was packed with women who looked like extras for a Whitesnake video. Poofed out, teased hair and fake tans with gold nameplates hanging from their necks. They all had long, florescent nails with designs that looked like abstract hotel paintings. As I sat I studied the picture of a chubby little kid who was stuffed into a tigger costume and about to fall off a plastic slide. It was taped to the mirror under the name “Gina” that was written in lipstick. Gina asked me how I wanted it cut. I answered- shorter.

I don’t really know how to talk about my hair. It's curly. I just wanted it shorter. She didn’t seem to understand, and asked me how I wear it. So I told her I shower then brush it. That’s it. If it’s really wet I open the window on the drive to work.

She started cutting and I watched the curls rain down on my poncho and fall to the floor. “That’s it,” she said as she was brushing babypowder down the back of my neck. And as I looked up in the mirror and I saw an image of Elvis, but not the young good looking one, the old fat Elvis.